Patrick hosts karaoke at the Monkey Pub in the U-District on Friday nights from 10 to close. These are his stories [dun-dun!].
When I was a young karaoke host, there was this guy with a fake name who came in every Sunday, and he was dumb and I hated him. His fake name was his “karaoke name,” and it wasn’t Sloppy Seconds, but it was just as stupid and alliterative. I hated him for personal reasons, most of which had to do with his appearance, which I did not find acceptable.
That wasn’t the problem, though. Sloppy Seconds was really into Metallica. Think of every person you’ve ever known who was Really Into Metallica, and you’re thinking of Sloppy Seconds. This wasn’t the problem either, because I really have no problem with Metallica. Or Catholicism. Just don’t, you know, talk to me about Metallica or Catholicism. I don’t care. I uncare. No, the reason Sloppy Seconds was a monster is because every Sunday, he would come in and sing “Master of Puppets.”
“Master of Puppets” is an eight-minute song about the first time James Hetfield got his girlfriend to do his laundry or whatever, and it’s fine, but you can’t karaoke it. I mean, you shouldn’t even want to. The intro is over a minute and a half, the outro a minute, and somehow, there’s a goddamn twelve-minute guitar solo right in the middle, altering space/time to allow Sloppy Seconds to stare at the retreating crowd, pithily check a watch he wasn’t wearing as if surprised, and say things to me like, “You should have seen them in ’95. They were so metal.” Of course they were, abomination.
The point is, you shouldn’t sing eight-minute songs. Or even five-minute songs. Three other impatient bastards could sing in that time, and also please don’t forget that nobody cares. I quit working Sundays, and “Master of Puppets” has been deleted from our database. Nobody knows where Sloppy Seconds is because fuck that guy anyway.